Dancing with lead
by Swiftkillswitch3
Summary: A fight for survival between a foe that knows no boundaries, is as ruthless as they can and will come and will take anything down any way possible. When Revenge discovers an in-system rupture in the graph, they respond... not to what they'd ever desired.


Chapter one: Nothing new

Corporal Lazowski glares at the data screens, unsure and confused at what's shooting across it.

"Uh, Commander, what the hell is this?" he asks, pointing at the screen and looking at the commander. It resembles a Cu'Thandrial's ship and it was cruising right along to us. A Cu'Thandrial's ship is oblong with a rounded stem and matching mid section. On its top center is the bridge which pops up like a half-circle and then sinks back down a quarter way in. The believed fuselage is near the stern.

Commander Buckle studies the screen, his eyes shooting from the picture to the feed streaming in from the external cameras and debating in his now-wrinkling face what to do. He looks up to Lieutenant Colonel Jackson and then back down as the colonel doesn't acknowledge him.

"Lowzki, prepare Zinger pods A through F to launch," he says and walks back to study the other screens with his hand in the lower of his back, his eyes showing the stress and his shoulders slightly slumped, causing creases in his Zoom-blue inform.

"Sir, it's Lazowski," he says, stressing zow in it. His eyes were starting to show through with the stress and pain of the losses we're going through.

"Sir, missiles prepped and ready to go," Lieutenant Sheffield says with his eyes on the screen and assessing the notorious problems they've been having.

"Commander, you're not following the orders again," Lieutenant Colonel Irons says. Paul 'Irons' Jackson is one of the main men in the P.O.D's or the Propulsion Orbit Descenders and the commander of the frigate Revenge which is roughly 2,000 feet and can carry roughly 3,000 troops including 250 Walkers. Irons is one of the toughest men you may encounter with a gaze that even a general flinches under. At only 33 years-old, he's about the average age of a lieutenant colonel from P.O.D's and is one of the few to see and accept what only a general would be willing to. Standing on a six-foot one-inch frame, he's built and has a golden tan from his Italian ancestry.

"Sir, understood. Prepare to engage when Irons give us the command." Commander Jacob Buckle's not the average commander. He's known Irons since grade-school and has his fair share of mistakes including going to renaissance for a couple good charges and has learned from them all. The military couldn't ignore his profile from ROTC through college and then here. His last name used to be Litle until he got married and Kristen made him, through paperwork, change it to hers (control freak).

Buckle's five-foot, eleven-inch frame is almost pit-bullish (sculpted and chiseled muscle) and is not a person to get ticked. He knows his boundaries with Irons and his crew.

"Lazowski, how far are they?" asks Irons from his command chair, tapping the holopad glowing in the arm-rest.

"One-hundred-thirteen kilometers and closing, if not rapidly," he says while never taking his eyes off the glowing blue screen.

"Commander, launch the party makers," Irons gives the command, his eyes leaving the data on the holopad, him getting up and walking over to the main windows, the windows invisible to the enemy due to a rapid heating and the spaces freezing temperatures.

"Lowry, launch 'em," Commander Buckle orders and then walks across the bridge to check out the other displays. There's a slight twitch to the ship as the radiated missiles zip across the vastness of the black space, leaving a light green trail in its wake. They impact and disable the ships shield and the next missiles tear through the skin with the radiation frying the circuitry and venting air. The Cu'Thandrials then take to jumping through a space-fabric portal and the nearest planet, Hope, has a haggard shift and a small chunk of land yanked from her. Hope is only the size of the moon orbiting Jupiter, Ganymede, and is still developing.

"Why'd they do that? It just sacrifices more troops, which is good for us?" one of the men asks from his screen.

"I don't care why, but get some Dragons down there and have them assisted."

"Get two Vipers on them and have them track their progress," Irons growls and his eyes shoot from Hope to the now-black space from the jump.

"Sir, Copperhead drones launched, but why? Don't we need to defend and assist Hope-,"

"Which is what we're fixing to do," Irons breaks in, looking down to his weapons officer, lieutenant Sheffield. Irons looks down to the light auburn-haired friend, his cold blue-gray eyes meaning no harm, but still making Sheffield flinch.

"Lieutenant, just follow my commands as I ask," Irons adds in and walks back to his chair. Lieutenant Sheffield is a typical P.O.D and his grays are starting to show through at his temple. He's also around 34 years-old, like every one else aboard this ship.

"Yes, Sir, tracking and following," Sheffield says and looks back down to his screen, tapping a few numerical icons and working out the math of the velocity and time it'll take to reach the ship.

Lieutenant Tanner abruptly jumps up out of his chair, "Sir, we're losing the tracking dev- damn it, we've lost them," he says with a holopad in his hand and looks to Irons with concern and consternation.

"I hear you; let's get some more and have them go out." He says and strides back to his chair, holopad in hand.

"Buckle, come here." He looks to his second-in-command and Buckle nods, quickly and reasonably walking over here, his eye getting a bit darker and sagging bit more.

"You're to command Revenge and her crew for I've got to check up on something," he says and his commander nods approval, his stress slightly leaving and holding his hunched shoulders higher in his creased and stained uniform.

"I'll be back. This is the reason why you're my second because I know I can rely on you. Just don't do anything stupid." He looks from Buckle to lieutenant Spears and back, just barely peaking from around Buckle's head. He looks Irons in the eyes and nods.

"Yes, Sir, I won't o a damn thing stupidly or without caution," he says and looks Irons back in the eye, seeing the now ever-present stress taking hold and his age-lines around and in the corners' of his eyes and the corners' of his mouth.

"Thank-you. I need more R-'n-R than you think." Buckle only looks up to his commander and nods, everybody still at their stations, doing only what they can do. Irons walks out of his bridge, the hatch opening and closing as soon and his heel steps on the line and closes with a well-oiled hiss.

Irons walks past many NCO's and Officers, nodding and patting some backs. One 'bot comes out and nods to Irons and he returns the nod, the 'bot getting back to scrubbing the floor. As he's walking, he gets a telecom from Spears who, miraculously, beat him to the draw of getting to her room.

"Sir, Spears reporting from my room. I have something for you." She looks down behind the the camera and Irons nods.

"I'm on my way," Irons replies and walks with more of a brisk pace. He arrives at her door just as it opens up and greets him, some paint chipping off the gray door and dull but vivid back lines going across its mid from where the mechanics have forgotten about replacing it.

"Take a seat, Sir," she says and waves him down to a seat on her bed. He notices a box roughly large enough to hold some new boots and she notices it. He takes the seat on the bed with a sigh and a deep breath. Her room's like anybody else's with one bunk bed, one soft-wall where the touch-screen television is mounted and a desk strewn with papers and some coffee stains and splotches.

"This, Sir, is why I've called you down here," she says and nods toward the bx which she pick up with a delicate ease and hands it to him. He reaches out and gently takes the box, a puzzled expression clearly painted on his face. "No worry, Sir, it won't bite you," she says with a slight giggle and gestures for him to open it.

He opens it to have it reveal a TNC or Tactical Neural-Communication bot with is about the size of a flattened football. Written clearly in the side of the box reads the following:J-091.

"If I may ask, how long have you had this?" he asks and looks up to her.

"Only a couple of hours, but I had to give it to you when you weren't around anybody," she says and looks down to him with a clear understanding, her body shifting because she shifted her feet. He never truly took in her slim and perfect beauty. Her hair was strawberry blond and her eyes were a fresh-pond blue-green. Her perfect body held some secrets, though, and she won't open up to anybody. Her five-foot, eight-inch frame was almost perfect.

"Where must I got to have-,"

"Medical bay," she says, cutting Irons off, but he couldn't care less.

"Well, Lieutenant, thank-you and I'm on my way," he says, getting up off her bed and walking out the door into the ever-rustling-and-bustling hallway. He walks past many more people and the command sergeant major for his troops, Chief Master Sergeant Helix. He nods to Irons, the scar from his lip to his temple ever-vivid and more pink and ram-looking than ever. He arrives at the med-bay a couple minutes later, the box in hand and when he steps into the door, a nurse in all white greets him.

"Come in, Sir. We're ready to have it up and working," she says almost too cheerfully and it makes him cringe. She brings him to the operating table, instructs him to lay down in the quiet and dull room with all bright white lighting and matching painted walls with computer-tops abuzz and constantly clicking with the thermo-adjustments and the most minor things.

"This'll literally only be a couple of minutes," she says and pulls the TNC from its box, the small six legs just hanging and moving with her very step. It is no bigger than a basketball and is the look-alike of a palmetto-bug with eyes roughly as large as a digital-watch face and is a flat gray with a fuzz on top of it and criss-crossed with blue lines parallel and zigzag to each other.

She pulls a thumb-nail sized chip from the bottom of the box, numbs the back of his head, cuts a puny slab of flesh out, then clots the blood to keep it in and pushes the chip right in through the muscle surrounding the skull. He still feels a slight tingle as it gets in and then she re-patches the hole and the TNC comes to life, blinks twice and jumps a couple times.

"Well, ma'am, thank you and it was pretty much painless," he says and stumbles back down into the table and the lights dim and a couple dozen computers fall onto the tile, cracking the tile and breaking. What the hell was that? he thinks and Buckle comes racing in.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but we're now engaged with a Cu'Thandrial frigate," he says, blood pressure up and his face pale and sweating.

"What all have we lost?" Irons asks, going to Buckle with the TNC on his shoulder. Buckle looks up to him, his breath coming out in short and rapid breaths.

"Decks A through G and K. I launched Zingers and did a sufficient puncture but nothing more. It's gone back around the planet for an advantage in velocity and upper-hand in the fight." He looks back to Irons and then to his shoulder-pet. Irons waves off the question with a swipe of his hand and a twist of his head.

"Launch a P.A.W at it and then we'll need to overrun it before they can even respond. Get one company ready and assembled. I'm going along with you," he says and another shake disturbs the ship as the P.A.W launches. A P.A.W is a Propulsion Accelerated Wet-cannon which flies at half-the speed of light from the pressure put on it and can tear clean through any ship, no matter armor density or thickness. An external-camera comes on and the cruiser gets torn right from the starboard clean through the other side, to be sent plummeting down into the atmosphere and burning up. The Cruiser is the size of two UWASC frigates which is 4,000 feet.

"Get the company ready and have them get...," he drops off, thinks and Buckle looks at him, wonders what he's thinking. "Nah, don't, just get the company ready." They both then walk back out to the elevator. They arrive on floor 118, their dormitory rooms, and get ready. Irons dismisses Buckle to go change into his P.O.D armor and goes to change in his own.

Chapter 2: Into the murk of battle.

Irons walks off into his dorm, smelling like fresh and cleaned metal which doesn't smell like anything new after spending the past 26 years around it. The door to his uniform opens up to him after he touches the DNA/blood-sample pad which only takes a small drop. The door opens to reveal his clean and comfortable armor.

In the years past, he wouldn't have been so willing to climb into it, but, now, it was another body: more protective, better feeling and was what made him what he is now. He slips out of his uniform and grabs a hanger and puts his clothes on it neatly and with care and then slips the armor on.

The armor looks as its name states it. P.O.D armor is very durable and, incredibly, comfortable compared to the Marines' armor. He slips it on the torso piece first. It is very sleek and the pectorals and the abs are the most prominent one it. It's made of a titanium-ceramic that absorbs much of all. You fall from 100 or so feet and it takes the impact, spreading it throughout the armor through the gel padding that is nearest the wearers body. The torso has spinal-transmitters that act as energy conductors and are pretty much like a battery.

It's all a very dull gray with insulation, a heater and air-conditioner, a water-purification system on the back between the shoulder-blades and a self-sealant foam covering the whole body so if you're shot and it goes through or stabbed and goes in and/or through, it seals then. The waist and torso are one so you then put on the legs (either or, just make sure it's the right leg because the leg has the boot, too) and are just as sleek and aerodynamic as the upper.

The helmet comes next and the faceplate is gray-blue mix that is like a 'V' with the corners tapering around and making it a teardrop shaped faceplate, but upside-down. And take off the point at the bottom so the lips show through with the tint gone. Two LED light-beams are mounted on the sides of the helmet and two more on top give lighting to the wearer. On the top of the helmet are air purifiers which will purify any air to be breathable. The arms are gauntleted and the left arm has a soft-screen on the forearm so you can have stuff relayed over that without ever having to talk. The color is a bright-blue but can be adjusted to be soft, medium, or bright.

The left shoulder has a protector the rises to jaw height and is curved inward near the top. Like an oval, but the bottom part is flattened to the armor. Located every-other-centimeter are photo-reactants that, when enabled, allow the wearer to become 'invisible' and molt into the surroundings.

The faceplate automatically adjusts to give the wearer the best vision and it zooms in to the magnification of 250 percent. It has infrared, night, and a new thing called visible-invisible-infrared-vision of ViiV (VEEV) which allows you to see your enemies if they're invisible and infrared for blizzards, heavy-rains, etc.

The P.O.D's have it good, but Walkers have it better. The Descenders are in training and physical/bio-chemical augs for four years and then is the chemical engineering. Walkers are the newer fore-front in the battle. In machines that could crush even a Halifax (vehicle) with of foot or both fists, they can do some hurtin'. You're selected for one of the other at around seven to 10 years-old

To be a Descender, you must be good. To be a Walker pilot, you must be supreme, not one flaw. Your abilities are a bit hindered in Descender armor than in a Walker where you're completely immersed.

Irons finishes putting the armor on and walks back out to be met by the company. He represses a smile behind his faceplate, nods approval and signals them to march to the vehicle bay.

"List-En UP!" Chief Master Sergeant Helix barks. I look to my right and nod my thanks and step up in the front of the crowd that's gathered and looks across the 120 faces that have shown.

"Today is the day we get to test you, the new company," Irons says with a smirk, "the day when, sad to say, we lose many and keep few. Now let's load up and get ready to hand those bastards what we've been itchin' to hand them," Irons yells while whipping his finger in the Cu'Thandrials' direction, "one helluva major loss!" The crowd starts whooping and Irons can help, but smile as the enthusiasm grows and the excitement grows.

"Load up and gear-up. Get on the Dragon's now. Only three necessary as you all know because they can hold thirty-six men, fully-equipped and armored." They all start walking to what their dooms will be and all smile and gives pats on backs. They're in for Hell. Irons thinks to himself.

Chapter 3: Mission 303*

*Side-note*: the story goes from third- to first-person and, since the change happens, don't ask why, I wrote it down in past-tense so, if you're wanting to know why, there.

I took my step first towards the Dragon when I had Tanner, Sheffield, Buckle and Lazowski catch up to me through the shuffling and energetic Marines, almost running in to me and then Tanner said why they were so late.

"Sir, we were a bit slow because Lazowski," he said, nudging the jumpy and hyper-alert corporal with his elbow, "Was taking his time getting dressed, and by taking his time we mean slow so..," he looked at me, a small smile on his face, "we gave him a couple energy shots."

"So, you got him going just so you'd be on time?" I asked, a smirk on my face. "Boy, I could find my squad in a battalion of other Descenders without a problem," I said, rapping his chest. "Come on, it's time to do some damage," I said, walking to the Dragon, whipping my hand in its direction amidst the still-out Marines.

I looked back to those lonely men and yelled, "Load-up, ladies; play time's over!" and then went in through the opened-up hatch. Tanner jumped aboard, then Buckle, then Sheffield and Lazowski literally jumping on. A Dragon has enough room to hold a platoon fully loaded and geared-up. It has four hover-jet motors, two up front and two in the back. This one was lucky enough to have a toothy-grin painted on its front with 'blood' on its teeth. For its large size, it's surprising how maneuverable these suckers are.

As I took a seat, I saw a couple Marines joking about murdering the beastly and barbaric Shalants. "Hey, you two," I said, slightly nodding in their heavy-armored direction, "you have a plan?" They both shut-up and looked at me, shock dawning on their fairly tan faces. The bigger one shook his head no and the other punched him in his armored gut, a scowl on his face. The bigger man looked at his friend and grinned.

"Actually, Sir, we do; we're gonna follow your orders and kick some ass." He looked up to me, his left cheek turned up in a mock smirk.

"Well, I must say," I said, placing my right hand on my knee and leaning out. "That's good, but it'll get you killed if you don't follow it word by word, now, do you have a plan or no?"

"No, Sir, I don't," said the bigger Marine, his brown eyes looking to the metal floor.

"Pilot," I said, turning my head in the cockpits direction, never taking my eyes off the Marine who was staring at the floor. "Get us out of here and to that ship." I hear some clicking, the hover-jet motors clicking on and the hatch closing. I stand up and grab the common assault-rifle for the Air Force: the AR 17, a mock version of the twenty-first century of the HK417 by Heckler and Koch with a couple variations. It has a sixteen-inch barrel, uses the 7.62x76 mm round and has a 35 round magazine. The body comes in two variations; DMR style with only single shot or infantry which is what we use and has many different color schemes available.

I grab one for each of my squad members, pass them out and look to see everybody else having either that or a sniper or pistol or shotgun. As we leave the docking-bay which is in the vehicle-bay, one more salvo from the Cu'Thandrtials ship launches at our Dragon. The pilot notices it and tucks it to the left, the salvo going wide and impacting Revenge, blowing out the shielding that was already too-low and frying right through the medical-bay.

"Damn it," I mutter and tell the pilot to hurry up. The glass on the back of Dragon blurs out and then becomes as bland and gray-green as the interior. I sigh and look back to the cruiser, a heavy weight settling onto my shoulders.

Another salvo tears through space, this one twice and wide and bright-blue as the previous one, aimed at the Dragon flying right to next us. The pilot jerks it to the right, the salvo taking the Dragon's whole left side and blowing it up.

"NOO!" I hear the pilot yell and feel the acceleration kick up. The stars become just slightly more dull and stretch just a hair as we hit a good speed. We approach the cruiser from the under-side, salvos still flying through space, all of them less powerful and way less accurate than the first and second.

The little fighters then come out or the cruisers belly and get dusted just as fast. The two-manned craft are like two bullets flying at high speeds connected at the rear. They shoot ballistic plasma, nothing more than high-radiated liquid-metal, that sprays off the shielding like water off a wind-shield. The pilot triggers two Alpha missiles and blow up the two-pair and dock us in the bay.

"Go, go, go!" I yell, the hatch hitting the floor with a thick-metaled thud and Marines' boots hitting the ground, opening fire on the ugly bastards. The Shalants fall, left and right, their shielding not protecting them due to the fire raging in the bay.

A Shalant is eight to twelve-feet tall with eyes matching a wolves in pure insanity, it has the snout of a bear, teeth like a shark of the twentieth century and shoulders as wide as two Marines standing abreast. Their fur also goes from light-brown (young) to being dark-gray (old). Their armor varies greatly from Shalant to Shalant. Variations in armor: blue; grunt, brown; guard, yellow; higher guard, blood red; supreme guard, black; commander, navy blue; pack leader/alpha male.

The armor is also quite varying and futuristic; the helmet has three spikes running across the top of the helmet and three more crossing the middle one. Shoulders to biceps are covered in armor, a break at the elbow and a separate piece for the forearms. The waist piece is more like a think belt that covers the crotch area and the thigh armor connects through straps. The shin armor is nonexistent on anyone, but the commander and leader. The knee armor has a slightly small and curved blade on its middle the goes up to a forty-five degree angle.

All have different designs and symbols etched and carved into their armor, beginners having just lines and dots, leaders having few lines and most symbols of vast importance.

I put a clip into my AR 17 and flick on burst, taking down one Shalant and then the Howler comes along. Pitch-black eyes match its personality; care-less, fearless, ready to slaughter and be slaughtered. It has webbed feet like the amphibious frog and is like what the common person thought the alien looked like in the twenty-first century. With smaller eyes and only small bits of metal armor covering half their chest and thigh. Five- or six-feet tall, nothing to really be scared by unless you're not a very fast runner. Then you've got a problem. It uses only a small pistol, mimicking the M-8 which we use, and, other than that, cold and brutally designed knives and swords.

One Marine, reloading his weapon, gets the truth through his chest as the Howler punches the jagged sword through his chest and howls (ironic, right?) a bone-numbing scream and the Marine nearly matches with one of agony as his life-blood flows from his body, him giving off seizures and then slumping on the sword. I aim at the Howler, it looking for one instant like it's ready for me, and blow its ugly ass head to nothing. Dark-red blood sprays out and momentarily squirts out and then the body slumps to the ground, the Marine falling over with the sword through his chest, dead.

The flames die down as the systems start shutting off because the plutonium and chromium stops flowing. One Shalant Charges Matt who ducks and rolls to the right, taking aim and the rounds dinging off the Shalant's shielding, making it momentarily slow down and stun it just as another volley of the 7.62 rounds tear through the shields and through its upper-half, blowing holes through the torso and the body twitching with every hit. It crumples to the ground as the last bullets flies through its head.

One Marine gets picked up by an invisible force and has a knife shoved through his neck, the blood spraying a Marine behind him. He gives a muffled yelp and has his head yanked off. I then take aim at this beast and fire, the camouflage wearing off and the face of a Shalant coming through. I thumb automatic and unleash a stream of 7.62 rounds. He drops the Marine who hits the ground with a cold thud and his buddy shoots the Shalant from the back and get his face knocked in by the Shalant from a backwards kick and flies back a couple meters.

I fire a consistent stream into its chest and reload, putting in incendiary rounds and look up to see it pull another knife. I get a bit panicked then even more so as my gun jams. I sling it onto my back and pull out my M-8 pistol with a magazine full of .45 rounds. I shoot, the gun giving more kick than I'd anticipated, and throws itself up. I level it again and fire again, blowing away the shield and then another to blow away its face. It continues forward, though dead, and hits the floor with a solid thump and blood flows onto the ground. I hear another scream from behind me and turn around...

...and see Sheffield get kneed in the back by a Shalant. I raise my pistol and try to ignore the other screams of other Marines dying and fighting for their lives. I shoot, the trigger feeling smooth this time and the bullet flies cleanly through the Shalant's shield, tearing through its neck and grasping for it, trying to congeal it. I run to Sheffield, point the gun up to the moaning and dying Shalant now on the ground and blow its brains away, the head blowing up everywhere.

Matt quickly grabs Alex and drags him back to where the Dragon was. I give cover fire, Buckle falling in beside me and Lazowski taking my right. I aim my M-8 up to the Howler at my twelve and fire, the bullet hitting home and shredding its head. It does a 360 and falls onto the ground. Matt gets Alex back up and we walk in the five-man-formation where I'm the leader, Buckle's the left-hander, Lazowski's the right-hander, Matt being the behindhand and Alex being the middle man.

I see a Marine being dragged back by a Shalant whose jaw is agape and bleeding from a jaw shot and shoot it hand, dropping the Marine who's freaking out, and running to its pack of...twelve. Crap, why now? I thought and yelled, "More Shallies, 12, 1, 2, and 3'o clock!" Buckle locks onto one and breaks formation, sprinting ahead and lobs a grenade into the center. Three blow-up and two are injured, the other three stunned and dazzled.

I flick my M-8 back into its holster, grab my AR17, pull out the magazine, Lazowski watching my back, pull the latch on the gun back, hear one more Marine scream, and let that incendiary round drop. I put the magazine back in, put it one automatic and shoot two Shalants, both erupting into flaming balls of furry madness and screaming in pain, dying from suffocation. Buckle drop-kicks one in its chest, the Shalant falling over and roaring in madness that it was just kicked over by a human.

Lazowski breaks formation, too, and kill a Howler getting read y unleash on a group of unsuspecting Marines that're holding their ground against three Shallies. Lazowski gets grabbed by one, thrown into a wall 30 meters away and crumpling to the ground, dazed and de-breathed. I take aim at the Shalants head, fire and it erupts into flame. Matt laughs at it, I smirk at it because it begins running in circles and flailing its arms like something from a failed horror-flick.

I didn't see the Shalant that was on top of the corporal until it materialized in front on him and picked him up. I see his body fly into another wall, shoot at the beast, curse because there are no more incendiary rounds in the magazine and just unload on it. The bullets all ping and ding off its extra-thick shielding. It walks over to him, laying on the ground with his arms splayed and crushes him with its giant foot. His helmet rolls off his head and his chest gets smashed to the ground.

Blood flowed from his open mouth, his brown eyes locking with mine and asking this: "Is it really happening? It feels so good but it kills me..." I yell at the Shalant who looks at me, a scar running up from its left eye-brow down to its chin.

"I have history with you," I said, remembering encountering this beast on the field before and giving him that scar from my knife. It huffs, its nostrils flaring and looks at me.

"Sir, what the hell are you doing?" Matt asks, taking aim at it. "Don't," I said, and swat his AR down. "I have a death-tarot to deal it," I said and lower my gun. It huffs again, its shoulders lowering and raising. I pull my knife out, a fourteen inch titanium bladed knife serrated at the end, and charge it. It takes one step, then two steps and then jumps up. I jump and land my knife in its forearm. We come down and it knocks me in the gut.

I wrench my knife from its forearm and it releases me. Blood splashing my faceplate, the purple liquid blurring my vision and giving it time to pick me up and squeeze me. I curl my knees to my chest and kick, breaking and fracturing its bones, denting the armored plating. It howls and I fall to the ground onto my back. I scrape my combat knife back up and go with an under-hand lunge that winds up puncturing its doubled-over chest. I hit it soo hard that it gets back up and I go up with it, getting a dislocated wrist for the reward.

"AGGHH!" I scream and shut my eyes. I feel something hit me in the back and it knocks me up and over the beasts back. I hit the ground and slide, my armor malfunctioning from the round pinging off. This armor was never meant to withstand a baby-fist-sized direct-hit from a round from a Shalants gun.

I get back up, slowly at first due to the hit, and get met with the blade from the owner of the round, in the face. It shatters that part of my face-plate and blood pours freely from the open gap in my eye-brow and cheek. I scream again and the blade comes back out to be shoved, this time, through my gut. I get pushed up into the air as I reach the barrel of the gun, thankfully the damned beast not shooting me, and then get dropped to the ground.

I see the floor and then hit it, bouncing once and feeling the fire in my face and gut. I look and see the body of the Howler hit the ground, his head ajar and his brains on the ground. Good, he's been pasted, I thought and more pain comes as I blink, realizing my eye-brow is busted and bits of bone enter my eye.

I see boots, aerodynamic and charred, come and pick me up. I wrap my arm around their shoulder. They carry me to where they have cover to fix me up. I heard only a couple rounds fly as the rest of the Shalants and Howlers fall. The fire roars, the temperature is beyond hot and I have my helmet yanked off. I see Matt and can't be more relieved. He grimaced, his brown eyes looking at the wound with the precision only a medic can have, reaches around his back, pulls some foam and bandages out and wipes my face with a disinfectant cloth.

He gags once as he sees the upper part of my eye and the membrane of the skull. "Is is that bad?" I ask and he looks down with a crooked smile. "Knowing you being so thick-headed, nah, it'll just be a temporary blinder." He looks back to the wound and shoots some of the nasty green foam into my eye-brows and cheek.. I sigh and deep and needed sigh and he wraps my face up.

"Thanks," I said and he offers me his unarmored-hand, I clasp it with my gauntleted hand and he pulls me back up. I loom across the scarred metal-plating, now pock-marked and dented from bullets and grenades and the such. I look to Lazowski and immediately look away, his eyes still asking that question though they're long empty and dead. I look back across and see the other dozens of Marines' bodies and feel a lot of sympathy and grief for them. I walk over the bodies and start taking off dog-tags and placing them in my empty belt pocket.

"Where's my gun?" I ask, looking for it now. Alex walks up to me, slouched over from the knee to the back, and hands it to me, the stock bent and the scope's optics cracked. I yanks off the scope and put it in my pocket, memorabilia from this battle. I sigh again and give the 'Move-up' signal. Matt hands me my helmet as he leads us the way through, the other Marines following him. I look back across, losing a connection with many men that I'd known for a while, and walks on, placing my helmet back on my head. I catch up with Matt and the platoon and continue to walk with them, whipping around every corner for any more Howlers or Shallies.

I hear something and signal for a hold-position. I signal Matt and Buckle forward, paying Buckle attention due to his limo and the torn armor. I shake my head slightly and he looks down.

"Don't be ashamed; you did what you could, that's what matters," I said through my helmet and place my hand upon his shoulder. He shrugs it off with a look to the ground like he could've done more and walks with Matt to the all. I catch back up and see two Shalants on patrol, one in blue armor, the other one in red armor. I look the them both and talk over the comm.

"When they both have their backs to us, just as they turn, take them down." I look to Tanner and to Buckle, both nodding and examining their movement, foot distance-separation, time it takes to turn back towards us, shoulder span for the knife placement. They turn back around and we three sprint up to them, taking the fastest and lightest step we can take while sprinting, and jump them. Matt's blade lands right square in the spine just above the back and below the neck, Mine lands in the neck, busting through the front of the neck, allowing no scream to even be uttered. We both fall at the same time, both dead before they hit the flooring.

I slowly pull my knife out, Matt copying me to allow only the littlest noise to escape. We take the weapons of of their dead bodies, strip them of the grenades they use which fly through the air and shape change due to the way it was thrown, and are like puddy when they hit, completely flattening to the surface.

I finally take a look at my surroundings and look at the opaque gray-purple walls and how they are flat. This place is soothing and very calming. I poke it - dumb, I know - and it shimmers and shakes like foil and returns to being still. Odd, I'd never thought they'd wanted their ships like this, I thought. I walk along and see a cool-blue conductor fizzling with electricity and sparking with loud energy. Should I shoot it or should I leave it? I leave it. We walk along some more in awe and then we heard wild and rambunctious crashing coming from around the corner.

I take a look and it's two Zoorthan's wrestling. Zoorthan are about five to eight feet tall, covered in armor, leave the face open. They are more like there distant cousins, the long-extinct Thrashers which were roughly the same size and shape. The Zoorthan's are wise and their cunning matches. Armor is very much like a Thrasher, save all the spikes. The Zoorthan's have a small muzzle like that of an out-world coyote and teeth of a Thrasher, two upper and lower teeth protruding from the mouth, skin that's mostly tight-knit scales. Their armor has bone-crushing knobs on the knees and elbows, two small spike on their shoulders and two more on their two feet for kicking and kicking like a son of a bitch.

Even Shalant's fear these power-houses, but, a brain-dead Shalant has the right to. They are good at every range, their marksman skills are great for the Picker...almost too great. I looked back to them and told them it was two Zoorthan's.

"Two Zoorthans, wrestling, paying us no mind." I saw the recognition come onto the faces, pulled out a silencer and twisted it onto my gun. I heard a grunt and twisted faster and then I heard one pick the other up and slam it into the floor, it yelping. I looked to Sheffield, handed him my gun and looked to Tanner, his gun ready. I nodded and they whipped around the corner, killing them with a couple shots from each.

I walked around the corner, the black-armored Zoorthan on top of the gray-armored one, the black one having a hole in its head and a couple more through its armored chest. The gray one having on in its throat, one through it nose, angeled upward so it'd go through the Zoorthans brain-stem. The reward was blood and gore on the ceiling which was just large enough for a fully-grown Shalant to walk through.

Too many halls and corridors later, we wind up in the bridge...with a platoon of Marines...and get met with fifteen Shalants, eight Zoorthans and eight Howlers, all in-the-know of us coming aboard. The Howler opens up on first sight and fires its five rounds and then jumps, I obliterate it before it lands. The Shalant's join in and then the Zoorthans, who start shredding through a couple Marines. I hear one Marine scream and see his face in slow-motion and it gets crushed by the Zoorthan's elbow.

I fire, once, twice, three times, nine bullets tearing through the armor of its chest, the armor shattering like ceramic tile, blowing-up. The Marines hit the ground, his right cheek and eye crushed, bleeding profusely, his chest not moving. A Howler charges Matt, silent and ready to slaughter. I level my gun with its torso, it looking almost frightened one second and then the bullets tearing through its flesh and bone, the red blood spraying from its back and the carcass hitting the floor.

I hears another Marine scream in pain and I see him, his AR 17 yanked from his hand and him being thrown across the room into a holodesk, landing right on the mid of his back on the curved top. He doesn't get up. I see a Shalant charge another Marine and pepper it before he can get two steps closer. I click my gun to fully-automatic and just let the lead continue.

My gun clicks twice, signifying that it's empty so I drop the magazine and slam a fresh one in within a blink, down to only three. I clear three more Shalants and then I get tackled by a Zoorthan from the back, my chest exploding in pain. I roll on the floor, my rifle skittering away a couple meters to my right. I pull out my pistol and get ready to shoot this bastard when it grabs my wrist and yanks the gun free. As it does this, I pull my knife - the beast not expecting it - and slam it through the Zoorthans chest, the armor only taking the knife to the hilt.

It looks at me, its eyes bulging and its mouth agape. Blood trickles down its jaw and around my knife. I jerk my knife out and the Zoorthan stumbles towards me and then collapses to the ground, blood flowing from the open whole in its chest. I stand over it, triumphant, clean my blade, the battle raging on behind me, sheath it on my shoulder and walk to my gun. I bend over and pick it up and hear a distant snort. I look to where it came from and see another one challenging me. This time, I just raise my gun and fire. It falls over, not even budging an inch.

The battled ended, ten dead Marines, more dead enemies and parts.

"Lieutenant Spears," I said over the comm.

"Sir?" she asked with a bit of hesitation.

"We have the ship. It's ours." I looked back to my men and shrugged my shoulders with an up-turned palm.

"Good thing, Sir, because General Shang wants to see us with our new prize." I looked back to my men and pursed my lips.

"I hear you. Can we have him meet here since we can't operate this ship?" I ask, looking to Revenge through the video feed.

"He said he would even if you didn't ask it of him." I sighed a good sigh, my face still in pain and my stomach killing me.

"Good, I don't want much more travel than what I've already endured right now," I said and walked back to Matt.

"Let's go, we'll have this ship in tow through the docking-bay tubes." He looked at me through my broken face-plate and nodded, "Yes, Sir." and followed me along with the other Marines.

We were victorious and we knew it. we were happy and also sad. We had only, a bit sparsely, captured twelve ships of theirs in the past two-and-one-half-decades.

I arrive back on ship, the crew applauding us and smacking backs of Marines and us. I look and see my TNC hovering in place and I smile. I have a doctor rush up to me, pull me through the crowd and to the bridge where I get treated and cleaned and told to go to my room and lay down. I go and it takes three weeks to catch up with the general.


End file.
